


Speechless

by kyloewok



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Balcony Sex, Ben Solo Has a Dirty Mouth, Ben Solo has a voyerism kink, Ben Solo is a dirty masochist, Ben masks his feelings for you with spite, Blood Play, Choking, Degradation, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate Sex, I hate you- I know, Love/Hate, Power Play, Princess!Reader, Sickening amounts of Banter, Slapping, Violent Sex, gagging, prince!ben, so much hate, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: He was arrogant, charming, infuriatingly suave. His name was opulent on the dotted lines of scrolls, shouted in praise amongst large, compressed crowds, squealed by modest young women. His disposition was hefty with wreath, but his overall demeanor remained an enigma.You loathed a mystery.Especially a mystery as atrociously handsome as Ben Solo. Especially a mystery that was just a vessel, feeding off of your hatred, spreading his wry charisma around your kingdom. Or, the kingdom you will inherit upon trivial request by your mother.And when Ben Solo attends your pre-coronation, your hatred for one another starts to uncover in tantalizing ways.
Relationships: Ben Solo/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Speechless

Benjamin fucking Organa-Solo.

The Benjamin of your holistic, vanquishing nightmares. The cocky, flamboyant Prince of Alderaan, that always managed to pry at your sanity in perfectly-nuisancing ways. The conceited monarch of his amiable but stern mother, Queen Organa—

Was attending your pre-coronation.

Pre, as in the "practice" coronation your mother had deliberated in order to perfect your flawed, consummated, proper demeanor for the palace when the time came to render yourself to the thrown. You, your mother, and every handmaiden and trivial staff-member of the kingdom were all aware of your... dubious approach at inheriting the crown.

You loathed everything about being hereditarily anchored down to all things royal. The Galas? Hated them. The puffed up dresses and caked up faces? Hated them. The opulent twain to every pitifully boring word in which regal Duke and Duchess blabbered with? Hated every fucking fiber of it. Even the kingdom was drab, and futile, when their was so many exhilarating traits about the world beyond the walls you were caged within.

And now, to feed the pile of shit festering upon your bleak life as a prisoner of all things monarchic, Ben Solo was designated to make a "special" appearance at your pre-coronation. You were already ascending the peak of your pint up anger for the matter at hand. His company will only heighten your disdain for everything to occur in the next few hours.

"Ow!" You howl out a complaint, voice hoarse, eyebrows pinching together, as a handmaiden forcefully drawls— no, jerks the strings of your lace, lavender-corset, tightening the silk ribbons with a meek, muttered apology in response. 

You frown, surveying her skittished mechanisms in the full-length, golden etched mirror. "No," you sigh softly. "It's not you're fault. I'm just..." You nibble on your heavily glossed-up, painted lips. Your train of thought converts to be scrambled mush, and you decide to stifle any further complaints for the sake of your pour handmaiden.

"No hard feelings, princess." She mumbles back, voice small and genial, her wrinkled, eld fingers working gently at the corset. "I would be mad if my organs had to be condensed within this weird trap just for a dance, too." She quips light-heartedly.

You snort, hiccuping on your chuckle. "It is rather uncomfortable." You admit passionately, smoothing out the taut, restricting, unpliable lace that garners and squeezes your waist. "I say fuck it, who cares if my gut spills out?" 

Her eyes widen in astonishment, a snicker crawling up her throat, eyebrows arched. Sometimes, you forget that cursing is forbidden from your oh-so-prompted vocabulary, and you let a few fucks slip.

"Oops." You grin sheepishly at her, as she smiles to acknowledge your slip-up, feathering out the subtle but still exceedingly puffy portion of your dress. 

"You're all set. Luci requested to touch up your makeup before the ceremony begins, though." She informs, taking a lengthy step backwards, allowing you room to creep off of the platform you were displaying yourself upon for several tedious hours.

"Thank you." You chirp, feigning a curtsy, as she bows back and shuffles out of the seamstresses room. 

You consume the visual of your dress in the waxed mirror, grimacing at the light, modest lavender that swathes your body. It was beautiful, stitched with precision, fabricated with stealth— but it wasn't you. A black dress would've sufficed, if your mother hadn't refuted the idea of it upon your eager request. She only rendered you a snarky comment along the lines of, "you might as well roll up in a hoarse, then."

The thought alone makes you grimace. The counterpart with the whole painstaking ordeal that was scheduled to take place in approximately one hour— the mere fact that Ben Solo's presence was guaranteed— was another factor as to why you wore such a disgusted scowl upon your glammed-up face.

***

The prized Ben Solo radiated his charm like a beacon at the chiseled-marble gates of the ballroom. Illuminating the massive foyer with his formidable, witty glow. Even from all the way across the polished mosaic-floors, his presence was a cold, thunderous slap to the face. A blissful, painful, irritating slap.

Your teeth grit, as he saunters by his mother's cordial side, his beaming smirk sending trickles of daunting, intoxicating light in the wake of his footing. It was insufferable, really. The way the women gushed and crooned over his dashing personnel and sinfully delicious looks. 

You could peer past that facade that guarded him.

There are lies that burrow beneath the surface of that lush, satiny, pale skin of his that are far too complex and sinister for the likes of them. 

Only you could handle the anarchy that flares and spikes within him like a flame of pure rebellion. Because you were no different. A rebel by nature, truly, unintentionally, completely unabiding to any law or brand that stands in your way. Ben was identical to you in that essence. And that was a challenge for you both. Two wrongs can't make a right.

That was just... a detailed presumption you made about him. Even though truthfully, his entire, lavish existence was an enigma. He was a tough one to crack. His shell had molded to be so fundamental and strong, you thought you would forever be left in the shadows of Ben Solo's mystery.

And maker, did you loathe a mystery. 

There was something threatening to you about not possessing the knowledge of someone— specifically someone that wandered the winding halls of your kingdom as if they had architected the walls with their bare hands. It was off-putting, having a man who left so little for the taking, navigating your halls, as if he designed them.

You forced yourself to clamp your teeth down on your bottom lip, suckling welts into the plush flesh, trying to suppress a glare. Watching with a faint but meaningful curl of your upper lip as he respectably, firmly shakes hands with fellow royalty and players of the monarchy, masquerading himself to be dignified and earnest.

That concludes it. You don't just loathe mysteries, you fucking loathe his guts. 

His act was purely condemning and flat-out immoral. His masquerade was transparent to an eye that holds so much willpower like yours. It was as blatant and clearer than the subdued water that plunged into the pier just beyond the kingdoms walls. 

He was a fucking liar. And a crazy, aggravatingly good one at that.

"Honey!" Your mother snaps, and you jolt, blinking fiercely at her. "You're being completely impolite." 

Her reprimanding earns her a death glare, as you straighten the curve of your spine to be detrimentally straight, hands intertwined by your suffocated abdomen. You plaster on a candied smile, greeting everyone with a small, acknowledging murmur of some sort, as they congratulate you for your inheritance of the throne.

There was a narrow, evened out line of Queens, Kings, and Duke's, all anticipating to greet you with plastic smiles, and treat you with meaningless riches. As you shuffled along the lengthy row of opulence, you started to grow wearier, and your patience was running low, as you were met with constant, "Mazel tovs!" and "blessed thy be's!" 

Every whine you emitted earned you a scolding, piercing peripheral-glare from your mother. It was enough to make you stifle your complaints, but not enough to wipe your expression clean of the lingering grimace that surfaces there.

You were nearing the end of the tedious array of Duke's, that were salvaging for a hand in marriage— that sure as fuck wouldn't be yours. Internally, you were grateful that you were teetering towards the edge of the line. You would combust before you could be tasked with entertaining another widowed-mans sob story.

That was before you were supplied with the smug face of Ben Solo.

Before the moment you were matched with his brooding face, every other person was just a bleak blur that wisped by with a brief message to convey. Now, it was as if your vision had been cleared, like the fog of disinterest that had been hazing your every movement had evaporated. Leaving you to wallow in the wake of his...

of his... stare.

His honey-speckled stare, that was hazel, and peppered with flakes of a raw, rich brown. His pupils were dilated, maybe with contempt and disgust, maybe with exhilaration, as his gaze penetrated yours.

Your breath catches in your throat, a painful lump accumulating there. You observe the way his eyes crease in the corners, as a tantalizing, but arrogant smirk pulls at his perfectly round, perfectly pink lips.

"Congratulations, princess." He muses, baritone voice filtered with feigned hospitality, as he cocks a brow and circles your wrist. Gingerly guiding your hand to his plump lips, pecking your knuckle.

You narrowed your eyes, your legs nearly trembling, as you continue to bore your look of malice through his, trying to pierce his soul through your icy glare. He was unbothered. Accustomed to your attitude towards him.

He decides to deepen his prudent smirk, kneading your wristbone with his calloused finger, letting his lips linger. Before leisurely releasing your hand. Those eyes of his twinkling with mischief.

You blink at him, upper lip twitching, teeth grinding together to appease the anger boiling at the tip of your tongue. 

Your mother lightly permits you with a warning-nudge, and you clear your throat, smiling wickedly at him.

"Thank you so much, Ben." You manage through barred teeth, tone snarky and higher-pitched than usual, taunting and condescending.

He flashed you his teeth, that gleamed like pearls beneath the chandeliers golden-glow, his grin corrupt. "Of course. Anything for my dear princess." He feigns a coo, arching an even deeper brow, huffing.

Fiery-hot rage builds within— as well as a flame of sheepishness that blotches your cheeks crimson. Blushing was not optimal right now... no. You couldn't let him worm his way into your conscious— you must forbid the warmth of fluster that taints your cheeks.

Before you could bark anything back, the line had shifted, and Queen Organa was before you, bequeathing a piece of hereditaric jewelry to your mother to grant you luck as the next to be bestowed the crown. 

"You have huge shoes to fill," Queen Organa states with a feather-light laugh, urging you to drop your gaze to her level. "But Ben and I believe in you. You'll be a wonderful ruler."

Your eyes flicker back to Ben— whom is already conversing— no, flirting— with a handful of young women that bat a lash and squeal at every ounce of attention he renders them. The pitiful spark of hope that arose within at her words instantly simmers down due to the sight. She was just mentioning him out of good-nature. Not because he cared.

You didn't care if he cared, anyway.

"Thank you, M'lady. It means a lot." You respond charily, your smile faltering, as you continued to watch Ben's every, irritating movement.

You were distracted by her son, merely glimpsing in her direction as you responded. Even though she just indulged you with a compliment and a million-dollar piece of her heritage— you found yourself drowning in a sense of dreadful unsatisfaction.

Everything from that moment proceeded to feel as if you were sinking deeper and deeper into a pitiless hell-hole, submerged in the filth that the rest of the kingdom had stomped off in their tracks. 

It was boring. It was tedious. The music was somber and melancholy, a classical, desolating tune. It reverberated around the grand foyer. It was boisterous, nearly ear-piercing, when the dull melody made you want to claw your ears off. The music blared over soft-spoken conversations and the chimes of dishes. Everyone was divulging, nibbling on sautéed Endorian meats, conversing about politics.

Politics were raging right now— with the Imperial Remnant scavenging for recruitments, and seeking out a plan to heighten their power, It was a controversial but entertaining subject to put on the table.

According to your mother, the Imps were stretching to great lengths to assert their faculty, and there's a probable chance that you'll be dethroned by the sheer power they would convey if the speculation on their schemes were true.

And did that unnerve you? No. Not like it should. You should be mustering up every ounce of willpower you harbor in order to fight the threats to your reign, but you lack the motivation and heed to do so.

Now, the sapphire hue of the moons nearly misanthropic glow beams down on the pier just beyond the golden-trimmed windows. Reflecting off of the seas eerily black, rippling surface. Waves plunging and crashing into the ancient scalloped walls of the castle. Decaying the brick with each inch the exuberant water submerged.

Although the image portrayed beyond the lanes of polished glass was tranquil and at peace, the interior of your dignified kingdom was at anything but. 

For you, at least. 

The only thing forcing you to retain your sanity, was the dessert table. 

The abundance of divine, dainty pastries and lush hors d'oeuvres, was your only source of alleviation and comfort.

Stuffing your mouth full of fluffy, cream-filled pastries and bittersweet tarts, you moan softly at the nearly euphoric taste of natural, gooey cherries, that seeped through the chunk of exquisitely baked bannock that you had scarfed down.

Fortunately enough, the towering dessert racks did a substantial job at barricading you from the rest of the ballroom. You were cowered, stance low although not remotely sneaky, crumbs toppling from your lips as you chew lethargically. You felt oddly proud of yourself for keeping the... unhealthy quantity of desserts you had consumed under wraps from the rest of the rendezvous.

Well, you did. Before someone gruffly cleared there throat from behind, eliciting a stunned squeak out of you, as you whirl around with wide and guilt-ridden eyes.

Your eyes rake over Ben Solo, eyebrows furrowed, a sneer twinging upon your lips.

Of course, his plush, naturally rouge lips were already coiled into a mollified but conceited smirk. As if the craters of his lips housed the knowledge of something so prudent yet discreet that not a single soul other than his own could discern it.

His frame was hulking and nearly formidable, the opposite of the scrawny sovereign-princes you were accustomed to. And Instead of adorning the typical, state of the art tuxedo designed and fabricated by opulent seamstresses, a drab blazer clings to his bulky arms, and a cashmere button-up swathes his build. The top buttons unclasped, revealing the glistening arch of his clavicle. His wardrobe purely molded by his own little rebellion.

His raven locks were slick with a coat of gel, falling in elegant waves that nearly cascaded down to his broad shoulders.

You fucking loathed the way you could've foamed at the mouth due to the glorious but wretched sight— if your mouth wasn't already dry and crammed full of immaculate pastries.

You blink rapidly, hoping to blink away the lasciviousness that was beginning to sparkle in your eyes. "Oh... erm, Prince Benjamin." You address skittishly, eyebrows still knitted together dubiously. 

He chuckles— a husky, low rumble that vibrates in the depths of his square chest. "I've seemed to have interrupted something... no?" He says, voice raspy, smirk lingering. 

You shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Yeah, you did, actually." You snap, crossing your arms defensively, jutting a hip. "My privacy... now could you, like, be a dear and move along?" 

He continues to propel you with that smirk, prowling at you with calm, calculated strides. "I wish I could sweetheart," he purrs, halting when he was merely a breathscapes away from you. He was so close. The earthy musk scent that clung to his skin wafted into your face.

His calloused finger raises to your face, rubbing and kneading at your bottom lip, swiping off a dollop of cherry-icing.

Your cheeks flush pink, as he hums contently, smiling sinisterly, bringing his thumb to his mouth. His hazel eyes burned with something salacious as they remained locked on yours. Even as he licked and suckled his thumb clean, beaming darkly with the flavor of wasted cherry that had previously latched to your lips.

Your knees nearly buckled at the proximity. It was shameful, really, how beautifully horrendous he proved to be.

His dimples surfaced at his cheeks, as his tongue darted out to lap any icing that tainted his lips. "Mm." He gruffs, "I have to say, Princess, you have incredible taste."

You glower, pivoting around to scoop up a danish off the rack. You snort bitterly. "Your flattery is never going to work with me, Ben. Ta ta." You muse sarcastically, patronizing him, swiveling to leave. Luckily for you, he let you slip away from his grapple— for now.

Consequentially, suit-clad Kings and jewel-garbed Queens began to ascend, properly, from their seats. Thousands of pairs of eyes were trained on your every heedful movement, as you grinned nervously, sauntering across the mosaic floors. With every set of royal-blue, and emerald green, and chocolate-opal eyes that scrutinized your every movement, a helix of apprehension gyrated in your gut.

The music changes tempo— turning from melancholy and peaceful, to robust, and enticing in a way. Exhilarating. Wordlessly, the crowd all dispersed to conjoin with their lovers. All beginning to interlock in a steady, bleak pace with the vigorous music.

You hover in the center of the compressed crowd, awkwardly twiddling with your thumbs, trying to maintain that earnest facade.

"May I have this dance?" A Duke asks, accent thick and potent, hand outstretched.

You reluctantly nod, feigning a smile. "Yes," you start, extending your hand to grasp his with your clammy one.

Just as your hand chafed the Duke's, a stronger, calloused hand mounted to your shoulder, gently hauling you back. You hiccup on your breath, as your forcefully whirled around, that big hand catching your waist.

"You thought I would let you get away from me that easily?" Ben smoldered, his baritone voice dropping a few octaves, his cherry-scented breath wafting into your face like an immense, torrid summer breeze.

Your heart stammers in your chest, face flushed scarlet. "You're an asshole." You snide, voice low and otherwise soft, as he sways you softly with the music.

He hums grizzly in satisfaction with your insulting remark, hand gliding up your waist tenderly, slithering up and down, from the curve of your hip and back up again. 

Maker, he is huge. Even as he is hunched slightly at the waist to level his face with yours, he is towering, formidable and bulky.

He leisurely interlocked his fingers with yours, guiding your intertwined hands to your side. His thumb rubbed and kneaded at your knuckles subconsciously, as he just basked in the glory over the fact you were even allowing him to be this close to you. 

His chin seeks shelter near your shoulder, lips brushing your ear, as he rocks you rhythmically with the beat. "And you're a spoilt brat." He shoots back, tone eerily even and pacified, his warm breath ghosting your skin.

Your hand hesitantly gripped his shoulder, as you glowered and sulked, grumbling snark and rolling your eyes— swaying with him gingerly, maintaining a perfect-pacing on the dance floor. You were tense, rigidly rocking around with him, following his suave lead.

"Come on, princess." He husks, snickering dauntingly, hand slithering around your waist and splaying firmly on your back. He starts to deepen his mechanisms, "Relax. Dance with me." He demands.

You sigh dramatically, eyes flickering around his brooding face. The spite filtering your system starts to simmer, as he beamed down at you with that conceited smirk. You crack a coy smile, despite the urge to suppress it for your own wounded ego. 

Your hand haphazardly loops around the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his dark main, as he raises his eyebrows and huffs in amusement. 

"I knew you would come around..." He murmurs, softly untangling his fingers from yours.

You meant to scoff, only for the sound to wither and die in the back of your throat, as two of his fingers poke at your chin, tipping it upwards. His thumb tweaks at your jaw, tracing the curve, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Lets get outta here, hm?" He utters, caressing the apple of your cheek, as you swallow harshly and timidly shy away from his touch.

"What are you trying to do, Ben?" You ask, breath quivering, voice firm and subdued.

It was scary. His whole disposition was off-putting, unsettling. He was acting as if he liked you, when usually, he was so keen on spearing you with unfriendly dagger-like glares and bitter words. And vise-versa.

His lips curl sinisterly, "Just meet me on the balcony." He orders gravelly, releasing your hip and directing you into a tight swirl, as you nearly stumble over your own feet. He tops the smooth relay off by bringing your hand to his lips and applying one final peck to your knuckle.

He was gone in the matter of seconds, dispersing from your body, leaving a strand of dread in the wake of his strides. He plowed through the crowd, conveniently blending in with the compressed group of opulence.

You blinked at the emptiness that he had just encompassed with his hulking build only a millisecond before. Trying to recollect yourself. Trying to rebuild that facade that protected you from letting your candor slip.

You supplied yourself with a few deep breaths, smoothing out your dress with clammy hands. Your cheek still burned with inclination where he had stroked it so gingerly with his perfectly calloused yet somehow soft hand.

You glance around the ballroom, searching for any proof that anyone could've witnessed the way you just melted at the mere touch of your nemesis. Thank the maker everybody was concentrating on their own elegant dancing. 

Now, hopefully, you can sneak off to the balcony without being caught... 

***

The hinges of the balconies corridor creaked boisterously, as you delicately pealed them open. There was a profound sense of turmoil wreathing in your chest, as you sauntered heedfully past the threshold. You drawl the velvet sheers margining the doors shut.

The waves plunged robustly into the pier, reflecting the dull-glimmer of stars that twinkled and speckled the black sky. Something in the corner of your eye was reflecting the moons tranquil glint.

That aggravatingly— but perfectly— romanesque face was bathing in the pale moonlight's blue-hued sheen. Maker, he was ethereal like this. Swathed in the cool colors of the skies natural orb, nearly salient enough to project the moons craters and caverns upon his pale face. His skin nearly glistened, beams of blues radiating off of his soft flesh.

His moles pocked and peppered his skin, small but pivotal, little brown shadows that speckled his face. The permanent-pout of his lips were shadowed with the moons drab sheen. His eyes gleamed like pools of melted-honey as he observed you from the length of his aqualine nose. Exhaling smoke through his nostrils.

"Are you smoking?" You ask. Tone accusatory, strides small and primitive.

You maintain a distance, plastering your arms on the trim of the marble balcony, surveying his every motive and movement. 

He scoffs. "Yes." A beat. He furrows a brow, eyeing you with dangerous intent. The smoke billows around his face, ashes flicking off the end of his cigarette. "Is that a problem?"

You respond by simply outstretching your hand, earning you a low snicker from him. He passes you the cigarette, and you instantly bring it to your lips. Inhaling a heap of smoke, watching as the tip gleams amber, tendrils of white swirling around your face.

You pass it back, forbidding yourself from even glimpsing him in your peripherals.

A suffocating silence sweeps over the balcony, the whistle and howl of the cold breeze the only thing alleviating your slowly-deteriorating conscious. 

Despite the calm-ish aura he broadcasted, you were still livid with him. After your tethered, sad past together, it was hard not to hate him. Even though simultaneously, that past you shared made it ten-times harder to loathe him.

You were both just children at the time... He could've never known he possessed a strange, witchcrafty sort of power. 

He couldn't have.

A huge part of you still blamed him for the accident. The catastrophe that had left a dark, permanent emblem imprinted into your mind...

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" Ben sighs, voice so soft and familiar yet completely foreign and out of reach.

"What do you want from me?" You rasp, eyebrows drawn together, as you whip around to face him. "Do you enjoy pissing me off, Ben?"

Ben simply clucks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, dabbing the flame out of his cigarette, discarding it off the balcony. He shrugs, swiveling to face you mundanely. He extends to his full height. Teetering towards you with methodical strides.

He smiles. A dark, twisted, corrupt smile. So blatantly heinous. His hand leisurely outstretches. The pads of his fingertips apply pressure to the sides of your throat. His hand slowly slithers around your neck, engulfing your throat, the pressure firm but not at all restricting. He tilts his head.

"I love the way you seethe my name with such... disdain," he says, tightening his grip, eliciting a croak out of you as his undereye twitched. "Sounds so pretty coming out of that little mouth of yours."

Your throat bobs into his grasp, jaw clenched, breaths quivering. There was something... tantalizing about his barbaric hold on you. As well as something warm and salacious festering within your stomach.

You smile wickedly back. "Ben." You repeat, growling his name, a glint of satisfaction beaming in his honey-specked eyes.

He continues to maneuver through you, his leather balmers chafing the tips of your heels, pushing you back with each shuffle of his feet. Your breath catches in your throat when your bare shoulder-blades are greeted with the cold mosaic of one of the palaces many opulently architected pillars.

"Mm." He hums grittily, eyelashes fluttering, breath wafting into your throat as his hand caresses up the side of your neck, long fingers splayed on your jaw. His lips ghosted the flesh of your neck, his thumb pressing into your pulse. "Again." 

You shudder, "B-Ben." Your voice trembles.

His teeth sink into your throat, tongue lapping the blood that drizzles from the small gash. "Again. Don't be weak about it." He hisses, suckling a welt into your pulse, as you mewl. "Say it like you mean it, princess."

Maker, your knees were wobbling. Similar to a baby deer, you bleat softly, legs squabbling, as he pins you with his body weight. Continuing to suck, and lick, and kiss at your neck.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate-

"Ben." You retort firmly, moaning breathily when he hummed in approval into your throat, sending vibrations throughout your pulsating frame.

His lips abandon your throat— as his hands explore your body. With slow, tedious, meticulous caresses, running over every crevice and curve, his eyes boring through yours.

On the exterior, you wanted to scream. Kick. Punch. But within, where that forbidden, venereal need kindled, you wanted to touch. Kiss. Stroke. Learn every inch of him.

You can't. You need to withhold your mantra.

"Ben..." you whisper.

He hums. "Yes, princess?" He murmurs.

You tusk, standing on your tip-toes to brush your lips against his ear, hand slithering up his clad chest. "You know what I hate?" You mumble, leveling your face with his, scowling.

He peers down at you with a hefty gaze of restricted longing. He sucks in a sharp breath, his smirk brightening, "...and what is that, princess?" He inquisits, his face lowering to yours leisurely.

"When you call me princess." You sneer into his lips— as they capture yours in a tantalizing kiss. It was so sudden, and deep, and meaningful, as if he was scrutinizing your lips with his own. Trying to muster out your true intentions by prying them out of your mouth with his tongue.

Your hand tangles into his hair, lips working to dominate his, as he growled into the sloppy, passionate kiss. Your heaving bodies were compressed into the wall, as you poured every ounce of hatred and spite you harbored for him into the dizzying, angry kiss.

You fist his blazer with your clammy hands, moaning bitterly into his mouth. "Maker, I hate you." You snarf, words muffled, as your tongue thrusts passed his lips, and he hauls your thigh up to his hip, steadying it there firmly.

He enters the space between your legs, rocking his pelvis into you, barricading your body from moving. Pinning you with his groin as he smirks into the kiss, deepening it, basking in the gasp you release into his mouth when you feel his bulge grinding into you.

"Do you?" He rasps, spit drizzling from your conjoined lips, that sloppily work over each other. "How much do you hate me, princess?"

His nails embed crescent marks into your thigh, his body chafing against yours, overwhelming your spiraling notion and tingling body. You mewl into his lips, eyelashes fluttering, fingers tightening around a tendril of his raven hair. 

"S-so much." You breathe, lips agape, as his mouth escapes yours, a sticky ribbon of saliva stringing your swollen lips together. "I hate you so much."

He chuckles, "Tell me more." He gruffs, voice husky and laced with inclination, as he firmly slips two fingers into your mouth. Plunging them in and out slowly, smirking as you glare at him, and swirl your tongue around his digits nevertheless.

"Little girl is so quiet now..." He mumbles to himself, eyeing you dauntingly, lips corked up at the corner. Watching as your lips take his spit-sappy fingers with grace.

You smile sinisterly around his finger, before chomping down on it. Instead of recoiling, he groans, his fingers twitching in your mouth. The coppery flavor of his blood puddles and accumulates on your tongue, as you giggle, basking in the way his face flushes scarlet with pint up anger and infatuation.

His fingers belligerently ease out of your mouth, beads of crimson pooling at the blotchy tooth mark you indented into his calloused flesh. You grin at him, feigning innocence, teeth gleaming with his blood.

He doesn't speak. Wordlessly, he sucks his fingers into his mouth, obscenely groaning into the taste of his own blood. Devouring it, lapping it with his tongue, as a lewd desire blossoms in your core.

Oh.

His fingers slip out of his mouth, glossy with spit. He blinks at you— before lunging an attack, his wet fingers feathering aggressively through your hair, his body slamming into yours, his canines digging into your throat.

A shredded wail of pleasure emits from your mouth and he instantly brings his free hand up to clamp it over your quivering lips. "Shut the fuck up," he sneers, voice lower and grizzlier.

"I hate you." You repeat breathily, cradling his head as he sucks and laps at your throat.

He collects a droplet of blood from your throat, "Tell me something I don't know," he grumbles, bringing his sparkly lips back to yours, transferring the blood with the sloppy kiss.

You moan into his lips, eyebrows pinching together, as he snakes his hand up and underneath your dress, groping your thigh, nearing your panties. Without a second to waste, he snaps them off by their brittle, lace band, discarding them onto the floor heedlessly.

You plant your hands on his broad chest and force your lips away from his own, scowling down at your dejected, torn panties. Those were your fucking favorite pair. Without processing your next action, your hand collided with his cheek, sending his head thrashing to the side. He groaned, thriving off of the pain.

It felt good to slap him— it was something you had dreamt of for a long time...

His head leisurely pivots back to you. Slow and eerily lethargic. His hand forcefully thwacks into your cheek, causing you to choke on a squeak, head whipping to the side, tears welling up in your eyes from the impact. The sting was like a buzz of adrenaline.

He snickers, as you gape at him in pure befuddlement and shock, one hand escaping his body to rub at the red welt surfacing on your cheek.

"If you want a fucking war, princess, we can have a war." He states pretentiously, swiping a dollop of blood across your lips, smearing it around with his thumb.

You reward him with a small, mischievous smile, cocking a brow.

"Of course you do... little slut."

He shreds the entirety of your dress, the seams squelching, the fabric tethering, as he rips it open to reveal your bare pussy. Your slick glistening underneath the pale moonlight, as you coyly squish your thighs together, breaths labored.

His hand seeks refuge in your hair, raking through it tenderly. He uses his opposite hand, that continued to gleam with blood and saliva, to firmly circle your chin.

"How badly do you want me?" He purrs, smirking, his hand abandoning your hair and fumbling with the buttons of his pants.

You squirmed underneath his build, incapable of maneuvering your head around in his grasp. Watching from the length of your nose as he teasingly unbuttons his suit-pants.

"Fuck you." You growl, seething, upper lip curling.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" He taunts, tilting his head provocatively. 

You open your mouth to bark a snide back, only for his pulsating, dripping cock to spring free from his pants. You gasp, eyeing his massive dick... so hard, so heavy, so red, drizzling precum from the vulnerable tip.

He wreathes you by a chunk of your hair, and you grunt. "I said, wouldn't you?" He demands, gritting his teeth, as he pumps his cock lightly.

You nod shamefully.

"Use your words." He glowers, grimacing at you. No longer playing the role of the good-guy. "You usually have such a bitchy little mouth on you... look whose fucking speechless now."

You swallow, narrowing your eyes into bitter slits. "Just shut up and fuck me already."

He smirks blissfully. "Your wish is my command, princess." He flatters, his hulking slab of muscle that he considered a chest compact with your breasts, as he spreads your slit with the head of his cock.

Wisps of white flash robustly before your eyes when his thunderous cock sheathes your entrance, completely stretching and expanding your walls, that clench around him instantly. A guttural moan shreds through your throat, as he starts plunging and plowing his cock into you mercilessly.

Your legs were locking his waist into place, hands mounted to his muscular back, clawing at it salaciously. Your body rocked, and slammed, and crushed into the wall, as Ben gritted his teeth and mustered all of the force he could fabricate into his manic thrusts.

His spite for you was wordless with the belligerent snaps of his hips, his cock lurching deep into your core, with no respect nor endearment, just the pure need to fuck you ruthlessly and as if you were a pair of savage animals.

All of the thoughts of regret and shame that brimmed your mind, were censored by the hard plucks of his dick, that was rearranging your insides with each merciless stroke of his cock.

Your breasts bounced into him, your head lulled back, your breaths hiccuped. "I s-still fucking h-hate you." You rasp, moaning, toes curling— your heels had bounced off.

He drills into you deeper, grunting when your nails scratch down his muscles. "I'm sure you do." He growls, the fap of his cock pounding into your wetness resounding around the balcony.

"But you know what?" He seethes, his hand escaping the wall beside your head and clawing at your jaw, propping your lips open. He looms over your agape mouth, tediously gathering a wad of spit in the back of his throat, forcing it to drizzle down your tongue and throat.

He spits a second time, forcefully, the saliva lurching into your face like a warm, sticky slap. "I hate you." He snarls, angling himself to be wedging his cock into you harder, plucking that sweet spot that causes your legs to spasm.

"I really." A forceful slam into your cervix. "Fucking." Another. "Hate." Another. "You."

You shrill out a whine, as a warmth plateaus in your core, your body quivering— with another stroke that crashes into your cervix, your orgasm pierced through you like a euphoric bolt of white, lewd lightening, a wanton moan tearing through the balcony that was silent except for your shared labored breaths and the slap of his hips smacking into yours.

Your body was convulsing, as he fucked you through the aftermath, your juices leaking down his cock and staining your inner thighs. "B-Ben!" You whimper, "F-fuck."

He barks out a breathy laugh in your make-up smeared, dewy face. "That's right... say my name."

"Ben—" you choke out, nearly shredding his blazer with your nails, digging them into the clad fabric. 

His hazel eyes burned with fury, hooded and high with that appending bliss. Maker— he was so close to reaching that tantalizing peak, inside of you, just when the balcony doors swung open.

But Ben didn't stop. 

Not even when your bodyguard gaped at the lewdly lascivious scene unfolding in front of him. Your eyes were wide, locked on his, as Ben remained brazen and continued to fuck you hard, shooting the guard a look of acknowledgment from over his shoulder.

"Did you find her?" Your mothers voice shrills from the interior of the ballroom.

You gasp, knocking your head forward, clamping your teeth down on the fabric of Ben's button-up to muffle your sounds. Shaking your head exuberantly, peering at your guard with pleading, soaked, bloodshot eyes.

"Shes not out here." He sighs, shuffling through the door, sealing it tightly shut behind him.

As soon as that latch clicked, Ben was pumping his seed deep within your core, groaning, fucking himself through his orgasm.

"You fucking asshole..." you breathe, tousled hair matting to your forehead with clumps of sweat, eyes hooded. You shove him lazily, drearily. "I hate you." You grumble meaningfully.

He remains inside of you, as he strokes your damp hair out of your face, smirking crudely. "I know," he whispers into your lips, kissing you with immoral purpose. "And I love it."


End file.
